


Hippocrates was a cool dude

by DestielsDestiny



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A technical conference in Bern, Arc Reactor Issues, Civil War Team Iron Man, Cloak Feels, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Ho Yinsen was bamf, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Tony Stark, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Stephen Strange, Recovery, Sokovia Accords, Stephen Strange is a very good doctor, Strange and Friday are bros, This is really as much about Yinsen as it is about Tony and Strange, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark-centric, Tony misses jarvis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: Five times Stephen Strange (casually) helped Tony Stark, and the time Tony tried to (casually) reciprocate.





	Hippocrates was a cool dude

**Author's Note:**

> This...is a lot longer than it was originally supposed to be. Also, I'm moving across the country to start a doctoral program tomorrow and I stayed up till three to write this because who needs sleep. I have weird priorities.

1 Multitasking while drunk 

Stephen Strange is not present for the first time it happens. Well, not physically anyway. Not astrally either, and this is long, long before Tony is even aware that’s a possibility. 

He isn’t precisely mentioned either, Tony smoothing a cobbled together technical drawing out in a careful kitty-corner of the Cave cameras’ blind spots, relying on Yinsen’s own not-inconsiderable genius to make the connections without words truly being necessary. 

And it works. It fucking works. All of it, from the silent communication to the offered leaps in logic to the suggestions he doesn’t voice. There are so many, many things Tony misses about Yinsen in the years that follow, but the seamless way they work together, the way they build off each other in a symbiosis of science and thought that Tony hasn’t experienced ever, hasn’t even dreamed about since long before Howard’s death, but connection will be one of the things that burns the hottest, and the longest. 

Tony will someday spend the morning after he meets Bruce Banner completely doped on alcohol and anti-depressants, and it isn’t all because of the whole Aliens and Black Holes in Space thing either. 

So yes, words would have gotten them both killed so much sooner, but they weren’t truly necessary either. And there, right there, is another one of Tony’s bitterest and longest regrets. Because no words means he never gets to ask how much of the leaps Yinsen truly followed him through. How much of the wonder in his eyes as he drank in that sketch was truly a shared memory, and how much is that Tony overlaying his hopes and wishes in the intervening years over a cherished memory of his own. 

He can relive that moment over and over in his dreams, in his memories, with BARF and without, but he will never learn the answer to that question. 

Tony will never be able to ask Dr. Ho Yinsen if he was remembering the same thing Tony was, a stuttering, hesitant teenager in a slightly too-big tux, spouting on and on about things so theoretical, Tony being able to springboard off them right into the Arc Reactor technology in a cave isn’t even the most remarkable half of this informal, impromptu act of shared genius. 

It is a decade before he will know the significance of the potential connection though, so when Yinsen smooths the sketch out again, double checks so things, pushes his glasses up thoughtfully, and looks back at Tony, his, “This is very good Stark. Very accurate, even the more medically relevant aspects,” only prompts a cracked smile and a private joke from Tony, “Well, it was designed by a Doctor, Doc.” 

For all Tony will ever know, Yinsen thought Tony was poking fun at the fact that he finally found someone who seemed to actually be aware of the fact he had five PHDs in a fucking cave of all places. 

For all Tony will ever know, Ho Yinsen didn’t even remember hearing the first paper ever given on experimental organ structure replacements, by a novice but brilliant surgeon, out of place amongst a bunch of Tech junkies in a conference in Bern. 

But then, Tony will never forget that Yinsen remembered him, eight years and a lot of terrorists later, after a drunken brush off in a ballroom and a very badly delivered paper on Tony no longer recalls what, but it definitely wasn’t medically relevant in the slightest, at that very same conference. Tony will never forget that. And so, on the days when his regret is the bitterest, when the mistakes of his past seem to weigh down on him like literal iron, and the memories are once again thick enough for him to forget he’s not still drowning, Tony lets himself believe that Yinsen knew exactly what inspired Tony that day. 

He lets himself believe that Yinsen made the same connection he did, long before Howard Stark swanned in from beyond the grave to take the credit for the damn Arc Reactor, and remembered just enough of an exquisitely drawn diagram displayed on an old slide projector in a badly lit ballroom in Bern to spark the idea that a power source such as the Arc could be worn. That is could save a life. 

And sometimes, when the sun comes out and the bitterness washes away just a little, Tony lets himself believe that Yinsen remembered that talk was given by a very young neurosurgeon, by the name of Stephen Strange. 

2 Is that a Cape?

There is something flapping in Tony’s field of vision. Something red and heavy, moving in a hurtling stream towards the other end of the bus Tony is attempting to hold above his head. 

Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, except for the one small problem of his left gauntlet being completely missing in action, the arm beneath it a mangled mess of blood and burned skin. 

And the other small problem of the apartment building listing on top of the bus. Tony really hated the bad guys who liked to throw buildings around. 

They are barely a month out from the Accords, close enough to the aftermath of Siberia that Tony’s rebuilt sternum is a fragile, tender thing until the powerful buffer of his latest armour. 

Which means that catching that bus hurts a hell of a lot more than it usually would. And is a lot of a percent more likely to kill him. 

It also means that he has no backup, Rhodey still a long way from battle ready, Peter being the kid he should get to be in Brooklyn, Vision occupied with the falling skyscraper somewhere behind Tony. 

Tony may have started this journey alone, in the wake of Yinsen’s last breaths, but it has been nearly five years since he truly had to go it alone, especially out in the field. 

Which is how Tony gets to this moment, one crushed arm and one tilting bus, Fridays voice a frantic but hollow ringing in his HUD. “Boss, Boss! I detect movement to your right-“ 

Tony bites his own tongue to hold back the retort of, “No shit Fri!” because she’s still a kid, barely more than a toddler in AI terms, and Tony shouldn’t be using that kind of language around kids-

There is was again, a flash of something red and, well, flappy, whistling through the air in Tony’s peripheral vision. 

He’s trying to shoulder check without jerking his remaining good arm, or more particularly its precious, precarious cargo, when the weight of the bus suddenly just vanishes. 

For a moment, Tony feels a rush of panic. Which is promptly replaced with surprise, as he blinks dumbly at the sight of the bus resting safely on the ground, the apartment building back on its four corners. 

Yeah, maybe surprise doesn’t quite cover it. Because if he didn’t know better, he would swear it looks like nothing ever happened to either the bus or the building. 

The pulsing pain in his arm notwithstanding, Tony briefly wonders if he’s seeing things. 

Yet another flutter to his right jerks Tony’s head painfully against the armour’s malfunctioning neck-hydraulics. 

He blinked again, just to be sure. Yup, there was a guy with a suspiciously familiar goatee- and wow, that really was a cape wasn’t it- standing calmly beside him, surveying the carnage that wasn’t. 

Tony feels the blood loss should be taken into account when judging his initial response to apparent magic being used for something good. “What the hell was that?”

The voice was just shy of deep, with an oddly hoarse edge to its cultured tones. “Nope, just the Dark Dimension.” This apparent non-sequitur is accompanied with a dry twist of that goatee in something that might be amusement. “I was just passing through, figured you could use a little help.”

Tony raises his hands to his face, wondering if rubbing his eyes will break his mirage of way too much cool facial hair and seriously, is that a frikking cape? 

Only to freeze when the still unintroduced stranger seemingly materialized in front of him him, hands that seemed to belay an undercurrent of deep shock and perhaps fading adrenaline in all their shaking glory grasping his mangled forearm in an astonishingly gentle grip. 

Something gold pulsed around his elbow, a look of studied concentration falling over the stranger’s face, which come to think of it looked oddly familiar, and Tony should be saying let me go, should be jerking his arm away, should be flinching at the touch, should be doing anything except standing obligingly still in the face of the urgent, “Hold still!” 

Well, still except for the gauntlet he reached tentatively towards the flowing red fabric that, now that he looked closely, seemed to be creating its own breeze around the man’s broad shoulders. 

The fabric somehow looked inquisitive when Tony’s metal fingers made contact, eliciting a stronger response from the man than his outerwear, though the firm touches on his arm did not cease. 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to ask before touching others?” There was annoyance there, but surprisingly little anger. 

Tony blinked. “Seriously man, is that a cape you’re wearing?” Later, Tony will genuinely wonder how the three of them possibly became such good friends after an introduction like this. 

Then, he just continues to blink slowly as the man’s growled, “It’s a Cloak!” followed his down into unconsciousness, blood loss finally pitching him forward into the secure hold of the Cloak in question. 

And that is how he meets the future Sorcerer Supreme. And his Cloak. 

 

3 Déjà vu and Afterparties

Reconciliation Dinners is what the Press calls them, officially. Faking It is what Tony calls them, unofficially. 

Awkward is what everyone else calls them, officially and unofficially. 

But, just like someone decided ignoring the entire UN was a good idea, someone thought “reuniting” the “Avengers” over cocktails and little cucumber finger sandwiches was a good idea, and so here they all are. 

For the record, Tony is only here because Pepper glared at him until he put on a tux and went, rather then protectively and not at all awkwardly hovering around the edges of her and Happy’s romantic dinner for two Tony had had Friday organize on in the old Mansion’s back garden, under the forsythia where Howard and Maria had gotten married. 

All of which is how Tony finds himself standing here uncomfortably, a plastic smile and a champagne flute or five the only things between him and the man who left him to freeze to death in a bunker in Siberia, a bunker purposefully designed to be in the middle of nowhere. After his helmet had been deliberately smashed, along with the HUD that doubled as his only communication device, because Tony doesn’t exactly carry a cellphone in his suit (well, he didn’t used to). And even if he had, even his reception is not that good. 

Although, Tony is pretty sure he has the fact T’Challa’s reception apparently is that good to thank for the fact he’s still, you know, breathing. Because had he forgotten to mention the whole double punctured lung thing? Yeah, fun times. 

Tony turned to down another champagne flute, a motion that naturally takes him directly into the path of a glare from Captain Judgement across the way there. At this point, Tony is almost wishing that Barnes had shown up to this thing after all, and not chosen to turn himself back into a popsicle. 

Tony is apparently both drunk and emotional enough that that is actually funny, poor taste for POWs and all. He really isn’t a fun drunk is he. 

Seeing his old Teammates inspires one of two emotions in Tony these days, and he has no place in his life at the moment for hope, so apathy will have to do. 

It beats anger or rage or pain or bitterness or even despair. He tried those. The hangovers were truly epic. Also, he may have invented transmutation. Or a new type of cereal. It was hard to tell. 

 

Really though, it isn’t even that Tony actually still holds all that much bitterness towards Team Cap these days, Siberia and Rhodey’s spine aside. He certainly doesn’t blame them. Not for standing up for what they believed in. And not for thinking Ross was a dick, because while that was a ways off the truth, he was a whole bag of dicks not a single one, the man was most definitely not impartial. 

So no, he doesn’t blame his old Team for the Accords Incident, despite what the newspapers might claim. Or he wouldn’t be the idiot who fed the public the whole reconciliation thing in the first place now would he. That is one particular piece of do-gooding Tony will not be leaking to anyone in a hurry. 

No, it is more that he remembers how they were before, to each other, remembers how he was when he was around them, and realizes that he doesn’t like any of what he recalls all that much. About any of them. Including himself. Some people bring out the best in each other, and some people bring out the worst. Tony has observed that simple but all too true maxim many times in his life. 

And with the clarity of hindsight and distance, Tony has to admit that blame Howard Stark’s ghost or not, he and Steve had always brought out the worst in each other, from the first insult to the last. 

And maybe that is a cop out. Maybe it lets Tony believe that their “going a few rounds” was always inevitable, from the very first moment. But none of that makes it any less true. 

Musings and too much champagne really don’t mix well, particularly when one wants to avoid Captain America at a cocktail party. Which is how Tony ends up nearly nose to nose with Steve Rogers, the later appearing to have steam almost literally pouring out his ears as he eyed Tony as if he might suddenly turn rabid and bite. Considering how things ended the last time they met in a semi-public place, Tony is a little confused what Steve is worried about. If he got any more accommodating about rehabilitating the ”Rogue Avengers” public image, he would have to change his company name to Rogers-Stark. 

Then he follows Steve’s gaze down to the glass in his hand and seriously? That’s what this display is about, complete with camera flashes and worried whispering in corners and thank Something Rhodey isn’t here tonight or Steve would probably be in about sixty pieces on the floor by now because damn it if Tony didn’t just involuntarily flinch at how close the man had gotten. 

A flash goes off right beside Tony’s head in the same moment that Steve’s voice reaches him, words practically dripping judgemental annoyance onto the floor, “Really Tony? It’s a little early for champagne don’t you think?” And it is all Tony can do to choke down a hysterical giggle because really? The first time they’ve been in a room together in anything remotely approaching a civil capacity in months and this is what Steve wants to talk to him about? His drinking?

The pack of reporters around them actually leans forward to await his response, Tony spotting Christine Everhart leading the head of the pack. Just perfect. 

He opens his mouth to say something suave and clever, only for this to trip out, “Leave me alone Rogers.” Oh, and was that a growl in his voice? Just perfect. The reporters look as if they’ve died and gone to scoop heaven. 

Steve looks like someone has punched the breath out of his body. And the irony of that is so thick Tony actually feels his throat begin to close into a choke. 

Come to think of it, his entire chest is well on its way to tightening alarmingly. Well, more than its usual tightness these days anyway. 

Tony carefully splays his fingers against his legs to prevent any fist curling or desperate chest rubbing that will subsequently be splashed across the front page of every paper everywhere, simply because Tony Stark and Avengers were used vaguely in the same sentence in connection to it. Tony got sick of making the headlines before he reached the age of ten. 

A hand lands on Tony’s shoulder, and this time, there is no way he could control the flinch, because he knows the pressure of those fingers. There had been a time when it grounded him, made him feel safe. Loved. There was a time. 

Tony’s breath is moments from coming out in a wheeze, Steve pulling him closer, something etched on his face that Tony no longer cares to consider concern. 

“Tony, what’s wrong?” An incredulous laugh bubbles up, past Tony’s mutilated lungs. He opens his mouth, seeking to gulp in just enough air to wrench his shoulder from Steve’s grip…only to blink in shock, because Steve is no longer anywhere near him, let alone touching him. 

Tony is far from being slow on the uptake, but he has to blink twice to ascertain that yes, that cluster of confused reporters flapping on the other side of the room is still congregated around Captain America. 

“Are you alright?” Tony whirled back, the deepness of the voice blowing against his flushed cheeks soothingly. First thought is Jesus, this guy is a handsome kidnapper. 

Suspiciously familiar beard chuckles quietly, “I’m fairly sure I’m not a kidnapper Dr. Stark. But thank you for the compliment all the same.” Tony looks sharply at the champagne glass he’s somehow still holding. Maybe Steve had a point after all, because how much of this stuff has he had?

Tony’s second thought, upon ascertaining that his apparent kidnapper is both dressed in an innocuous tux, and appears to lack nefarious avenues or journalistic ties, is one of slightly drunken indignation, because did this guy just steal his signature drunk guy at a party move? Because Tony has had exclusive rights to that since he stole it from Bruce Wayne. 

Although to be fair, his version did not involve teleportation. Which, hello, cool!

“Yeah, sorry, I’m not sure who you are and everything, but important point-was that teleportation you just did back there?” Tony barrels through the man’s confused-or is that amused?-expression, “Wait, you’re not related to Loki at all are you? Cause I know Thor says he’s friendly and everything now, but I have trouble trusting anyone who thinks they look that good in horns.” 

Nice-in-a-rumple-tux executes a few rapid blinks of his own, and then seems to carry right along, causing Tony to offer a blink of his own in return. No one has adapted that quickly to full on Tony Stark since Bruce. 

“Technically I manipulated space-time around you and the good Captain and pulled you through a crack in that moment to this next moment, but yes, I suppose teleportation would be an adequate explanation.” The man had appeared almost stuffy enough to start sniffing at Tony, then proceeds to ruin the effect by grinning boyishly, “My explanation is a lot cooler though.” 

Tony feels something in his chest loosen, his breathing coming in slightly harsher gaps due to the panic that feeling induces, because it’s all he can do not to start liking this guy, and look how that turned out last time. Or the times before that. 

Tony isn’t sure where he was going to go next with that, because the man’s gaze is suddenly fixed on Tony’s chest, and what, does this guy have a suit fetish or something? It’s not even Armani. 

“Is that an artificial sternum?” Apparently not, also, what the fuck?

“Excuse me?” There isn’t much that startles Tony these days, but anyone having good enough eyes to notice a secret that is so subtle, he hadn’t even had to try to keep it an actual secret because even Rhodey hadn’t noticed and he’d seen Tony shirtless since, certainly made the still capable of startling him list. 

Said rescuer doesn’t have the grace to blush, instead doing something far more interesting and offering his right hand like a peace offering, “My apologies, we haven’t been introduced properly. You were far too busy bleeding profusely last time we met. Dr. Stephen Strange. I couldn’t help but notice that you have some mightily interesting tech in your chest there Dr. Stark.” 

Tony has had a little too much champagne to determine whether there was an extremely cheesy pick-up line in there somewhere, instead choosing to focus on the way the man introduced himself, as if his name alone automatically explained every quirk of his behaviour just like that. 

And it kinda did, now that Tony’s alcohol soaked brain was catching up with the whole yes, that really was teleportation back there program. 

Tony winces, trying hard not to picture Pepper’s reaction to those headlines, only to freeze mid-wince and blink at the guy’s ridiculously handsome face again.

And somehow that’s where Tony finally makes the connection between Hot Cape-Cloak, It’s a Cloak!-Guy and Dr. Stephen Strange, the world’s most talented neurosurgeon, ranked the sixth most intelligent person alive, who vanished off the edge of the world almost five years earlier. Only to resurface last month looking like an escapee from a Renaissance Fair and flying of all things apparently. 

The man who once gave a ground-breaking paper on the potential of combining heart implants with artificial bone and organ structures, looking all of about twelve, his voice still breaking, years before 3D printing would make any of what he was saying even remotely an imaginable reality. 

A ground-breaking paper that Tony had sat in on because he was too drunk to drive, Happy was still trying to chat up a really hot nuclear physicist in the corner, and he’d been bored. 

A ground-breaking paper that several years, thousands of miles, and galleons of sand later, the vaguest memory of would inspire Tony to rethink the idea that would end up saving his own life in a cave using a box of scraps. 

Tony is pretty sure the phrase the breath being knocked right out of your lungs was invented for situations like this. 

Numbly, he grasped Strange’s hand, only to have his entire forearm jerk spasmodically, and to watch Strange’s face crumble slightly, like a bolt of agony had suddenly shot through his body. The hand Tony still grasped gave another violent jerk, and Tony felt something in his chest tighten, the words tragic car accident and disappearance finally snapping together in his brain. 

So perhaps not just exhaustion then. 

Releasing Strange’s hand with as much carefulness as his impaired coordination permits, Tony tries for changing the topic. 

“Tony Stark. Nice to meet you Dr. Strange. I heard one of your papers once, at a conference in-“ The words die in Tony’s throat because how much champagne has he had, because how could he not have made that connection-

“In Bern, yes I remember. It was my first conference presentation, but all the papers talked about the next day was that nuclear physicist you went home with.” The amusement in that voice is almost more interesting than the shadow of old resentment, which takes the back seat to Tony’s wince because yeah, that nuclear physicist had been the one Happy had been making eyes at all night, until Tony had lurched over and dollar signs had appeared in her eyes to wipe away the rather sweet smile she’d been giving Happy’s clumsy attempts at flirting sweetly back. God he was an ass in those days. 

Tony raises his champagne glass to his lips, only for Strange’s voice to cut into his musings and oh, was he still standing that close? What on earth was in this champagne. 

“If I’m not mistaken, the kind of anti-rejection suppressants necessary to accommodate a Boseman Sternum Replacement aren’t exactly conducive to being mixed with alcohol.” A flash of something that strangely isn’t judgement flashes through the Doctor’s eyes. Regret maybe? Nostalgia? And yeah, maybe Tony has had enough if he’s giggling at puns that bad. 

Strange apparently misinterprets that, because his shoulders hunch through a muscle spasm in an almost defensive manner. “Although admittedly I’m a little behind in my literature.” He draws at the word little as if he’s trying to convey a long amount of time. Five years, if Tony had to hazard a guess. 

A wave of regret causes him to lower the champagne untouched, Strange’s earlier words reverberating through his skull. Bern. A conference in 2000 where Tony was so drunk, he completely missed meeting one of the most important men he would ever know. Boseman, the stupid made-up name Tony had given to the life-saving technology that same man had invented in that bloody cave in the Afghan mountains, because Yinsen was too secretive and too humble to want the credit for something he only got a chance to proto-type in one live trial. 

Apparently he’s had enough champagne to slow down his thought processes more than he realized, because Strange is looking distinctly worried now, his spasming right hand hovering mere inches from Tony’s shoulder. “Dr. Stark, are you alright?” 

For a moment, déjà vu hits Tony so strongly, his half wants to grab hold of Stephen Strange and never let go. 

And that’s how Tony Stark officially meets Stephen Strange. 

 

4 Well this is getting awkwardly intimate

Tony quits drinking on a Thursday. 

It is not like he hasn’t stopped before at certain points in his life. Afghanistan would spring to mind, except some brown stuff that tasted vaguely like dirt flavoured vodka was pretty much the only thing that passed for anesthetic in that hellhole so no, not so much. 

After Afghanistan…well, there is this common misconception that most people drink when things become too much for them. Tony can’t speak for others, but for himself, he doesn’t drink when he’s emotionally drained. 

He drinks when he’s bored. He spent the year after his parents’ deaths designing JARVIS. He spent MIT drinking hard. You do the math. 

In the years since he became Iron Man in fact, his drinking has been sporadic at best. 

That all changed after Siberia, and not for the usual reasons. Not for the reasons everyone assumes either though. 

There is something about alcohol that he finds comforting after, well just after. A last link to his dad perhaps. Tony doesn’t think about it too closely, just like he doesn’t think about what side of the sliding scale of alcoholism he is tipping towards with every thrown back scotch. 

And it’s going fine, really. He is a genius after all, and he’s had a love-hate relationship with booze his entire life, bonafide alcoholic or not. 

It’s going fine, until it isn’t. Until Peter does something extra dangerous, and Tony is shaking so badly he spills scotch all over his workbench. And then he is shouting, loud and hurtful, and then the unthinkable happens. He throws the glass at his protégé. And it is only by the grace of who knows what that they were facetiming and not actually speaking in person, that the glass goes through the image of Peter’s stricken face and smashes harmlessly against the wall. 

Tony stares at the glass shards in horror, ignoring Peter’s frantic queries, “Are you alright Mr. Stark? Should I come over? Are you alright??” He stares at them until his vision begins to blur, and he slides down the lap table to collapse in a boneless heap against the table leg. 

And even though Peter comes over in a frantic blur of suit and webbing, even though he insists on making Tony coffee and helping Dummy clean up the mess, even though Tony apologizes over and over, only to have Peter forgive him instantly. Even with all that, or perhaps because of all that, Tony knows he will never forgive himself for almost becoming his father.

That was on Wednesday. On Thursday, Tony Stark quits drinking. For good. 

00

The problem with waffling between social drinker and borderline alcoholic one’s entire life, Tony reflects ruefully as another wave of nausea crashes into him, is that when you finally go cold turkey, detox is a hell you have never quite experienced in its full joys before. 

Well, not without Jarvis by his side. Physically or not. Tony loves Friday dearly, as he loves all his creations, but the realization that nothing will ever quite come close to the connection he felt to his first AI has never burned brighter than in those first hours and days of agony. 

Although, Friday is better at listening to Tony’s orders when she really rather shouldn’t than Jarvis ever was, the net result of which is Tony collapsing of dehydration three days in, with Pepper and Rhodey and Happy all blissfully none the wiser. 

And if Tony’s only response as he rolls into unconsciousness is to whisper, “Good Girl Fri,” at the ceiling, well, Tony has more than a history of bad decision making. 

Fortunately, his AI’s are slightly better at decision making than he is. 

00

Tony’s reaction, upon waking up to observe an IV needle gracefully maneuvering itself into his left hand, apparently of its own accord, is a parched moan at the ceiling, “Fri, you called Strange?!”

Friday is uncowed. “You were dangerously close to expiring on me Boss. And Dr. Strange is, as he often insists, a fully qualified medical doctor.” And damn if that wasn’t Jarvis levels of sarcasm in her voice. 

Tony flops his head weakly in the direction of the dry chuckle emanating to his left. “Only you could create an Artificial Intelligence that sounds like a Stark, Dr. Stark.” Perpetually formal or not, Tony almost groans again at the sheer badness of that pun. 

The back of a faintly shaking wrist brushes against Tony’s head, and he puts his lack of flinch entirely down to how out of it he is. From the dehydration and everything. 

There are many things Tony could ask Strange, who is in the process of watching-or perhaps directing?- tape placing itself over the successfully inserted IV. Why did he come? Why did Friday even have his number? How close to dying had Tony let himself come this time? Had he called anyone?

Naturally, what he actually settled for was, “Where’s Cloak?” And yes, they had had the whole name for sentient clothing conversation. 

Strange seated himself carefully beside Tony, gesturing vaguely with his head towards the closed bedroom door. “It’s making tea.” Yes, they had the gender pronoun conversation too. 

“Why are you here Strange?” Tony’s mouth feels like cotton balls died in it, but he knows the question is clear by the subtle flinch that runs through Strange’s frame, the tremor for once having absolutely nothing to do with his accident.   
Still, the gaze that meets his is as earnest as it is awkward. “Didn’t you hear Stark? Your AI called me,” Insert humorous chuckle here, “She can be a veeery persuasive gal, trust me.” 

They both hear the, “Because you needed help,” as plain as day, but the Cloak floating in carefully balancing what appears to be every piece of that really expensive antique tea set Pepper picked out years ago fortunately saves them from any more sharing and caring moments. 

The hand that carefully tips Tony’s head up to sip at surprisingly good tea, considering it was made by a piece of mobile outerwear assisted by a glorified wall computer, barely shakes, and even though it is wrapped securely with Cloak folds to execute this feat, Tony sees an echo of the doctor Strange still is in every line of his concerned face. 

He raises a trembling hand of his own to cover Strange’s around the teacup, “Thanks…Doc.” 

The warm smirk he receives in answer warms him right through to his toes. 

00

His fever spikes a day later, thirty-six hours into Operation Stark Sitting, as Strange insists on calling it. Tony feels it should be more pathetic that this is the most fun he’s had in another adult’s company in a long, long time. 

Plus, Strange in an undershirt makes really great eye candy. Tony feels it should be noted that the fever is probably doing unspeakable things to his brain at his very moment. 

Withdrawal sucked. 

Naturally, it is during the thirty-seventh hour that things truly begin to get weird. 

Tony groans, his breath coming in shallow gasps that taste of vomit and sweat. He grimaces, flopping a hand towards Stephen, who currently appears to be arguing with Cloak over who gets to bathe Tony’s forehead this time. God his life is weird. 

“You know, you saved my life once.” Tony goes for mumble, but comes up with something more resembling croak. Stephen, having apparently won the argument and who knew Cloaks could huff, carefully wipes the sweat out of Tony’s eyes, his own raking down the billionaire’s supine form with undisguised worry. “Which time Stark? There has been so very many, particularly of late.” 

Yeah, and Tony used to think he was good at using sarcasm in any situation. Such as caves for example, and focus Tony, this is important. 

“No, not any of that flashy stuff. I mean the real first time you saved my life.” There, that really clears it up.

Stephen quirked a brow. “The first time wasn’t flashy enough for you?” Said “first” time had involved almost plummeting to his death, giant killer wasps, and a distinct absence of Captain America. So no, pretty much par for the course these days, and not remotely flash-worthy, but that was beside the point. Tony flapped his hand around vaguely again. 

“No, not that first time. The first, first time.” There, much clearer. 

Stephen looks confused, but continues his comforting moping. 

“Do you meet that time at the Gala? Because trust me, I’m not a big fan of dear old Cap, but even I doubt he was intending to kill you in front of a pack of journalists.” More moping, the cloth whipping up with the force of Tony’s disgruntled snort. 

“Please, as if Steve could best me.” They both carefully don’t wince at the pained bravado that still haunts that statement. “No, I mean way, way before that. The real first time. Back in Bern.” 

Now, the moping pauses. Stephen looks confused for the first time since this entire fruit-salad escapade of a dialogue began. Huh, guess the man wasn’t listed as the fifth most intelligent person in the world for nothing. He can almost keep up with Tony’s second. 

Almost. “When were you in danger in Bern, of all places?” Tony is beginning to feel annoyed, because this really shouldn’t be that hard for Strange of all people to follow. 

“No, the danger wasn’t in Bern, obviously. It’s in Switzerland.” Tony says that with enough distain that he practically expects to transform into Howard Stark on the spot. 

This obviously does not happen, and Tony swallows a mouthful of vomit that has nothing to do with the withdrawal. “Although, I did meet the guy who blew up my house there, but that was in an elevator, and those are always creepy anyway.” 

Stephen doesn’t appear to have strong feelings on the creepiness of elevators, and is as always frustratingly hard to distract with inanity. 

“How did I save your life then? Since it wasn’t by stopping Aldrich Killian, evidently.” 

Tony blinked. Seriously, how did Strange know these things. 

Tony’s reactor thumps painfully against his ribs at that moment, as a weak cough slipped past his puckered lips. Tony grimaced, oh, right. 

He flopped a rubbery arm against his chest, his fingers making clumsy contact with the edge of the reactor. He pats it. “No, the danger was in Afghanistan. In a cave. The conference was in Bern.” 

Tony averts his eyes at this point, carefully studying the Cloak’s attempt to blend into his wall to…give them the illusion of privacy? God Strange has odd companions. 

“You gave this paper thing, about heart implants and stuff.” He pats the reactor a little harder, breathing through the wince this causes. “It’s what gave me the idea, for this.” He glances fleetingly at Strange, takes in his carefully blank expression, that darts his gaze away with an flitted smile of self-deprecation and redirection, “So yeah, you kind of did save my life in Bern after all.”

The pause this statement elicits seems to span an eternity.   
Tony feels Strange sitting heavily beside him, dipping the cloth back into the fresh bowl the Cloak has just provided. He remains tense, waiting. 

“I don’t even remember you being at that conference I’m afraid Stark.” Strange still isn’t looking at him. 

“But I do remember meeting the most interesting doctor there. Another surgeon, specialized in trauma and cardiothoracics. Brilliant mind.” Strange smiled at the memory. “Beautiful hands. He gave me a lot of great feedback on my paper.” 

His gaze finally swung up to meet Tony’s. “His name was Dr. Ho Yinsen.” 

Tony feels a tear slowly trace down his cheek. He doesn’t know how Strange knows any of this, but in this moment, neither does he care. 

“Well, guess we’ll have to call it a group effort then.” And when Stephen chuckles wetly at that, Tony fights past the lump in his throat, and lets himself happily join in. 

 

5 Taking casual to a whole other realm

Considering Thanos’ enduring apathy, and his somewhat amused and cavalier attitude to galactic domination, they don’t actually lose all that many people in the end. 

They still lose enough to hold a thirteen-day funeral across the globe, but part of that stems from someone suggesting they turn it into a more general memorial event, and by the time they are remembering people lost to the Chitauri, they are already on day ten, and Tony is really wishing he hadn’t long since quit alcohol. 

He’s watching James, the second James in his life, and damn if the tears aren’t threatening to choke Tony again, attempt to burn down the church they’re standing in by lighting a candle for every Red Room victim he can remember when the brush of a Cloak finally registers. 

And for a moment, Tony wants to scream loud enough to rip the church from its foundations. He wants to cry and rant and throw things. He wants to punch the Sorcerer he knows will be beside him in his stupid face, because where the fuck has the man and his stupid Cloak been for the last week. 

But then Tony thinks of what Rhodey would say about him burning down a fucking church, and suddenly all he can do is grope desperately for Stephen’s hand through the singed folds of clothe, letting Cloak wrap securely around both their shoulders, cherishing every spasm of muscle and nerve damage that jerks through their clasped digits, because at least it means they’re both alive. 

No, they don’t lose nearly as many as they could have. As they probably should have. But they lose enough. 

00

Tony used to hate the judgement in Captain America’s eyes, but this isn’t his Cap and those aren’t the right eyes, and damn if that doesn’t make him hate them all the more. 

Tony used to hate those eyes for a very different reason, a reason that has eroded slowly over the years, that shattered into a million pieces when they both held one of Steve Roger’s hands as he breathed his last, taking Thanos down with him. A reason that finally, utterly dissolved all of a week earlier, when Barnes walked up to Tony while the memorial service was on its third day, scrolling steadily through the victims of Hydra. They were on the S’s. 

He stood there, eyes bloodshot, hair short and frayed, chin lowered. He looked barely more than the boy he still was, decades on ice in between or not. But he stood there, as the names Howard and Maria Stark were called. He stood there, in front of their son, and he raised his head, and he said, “I’m sorry Tony.” 

And the words choked Tony, for so many, many reasons. It had been two weeks since Steve’s death, and Strange was who knew where, and the words choked him. So he didn’t say, “I forgive you.” He doesn’t say, “It wasn’t your fault.” Those might be true, and they might not. 

But he does hear his mother’s voice in his ear, whispering, “I love you Antonio.” He does see the tears in Steve’s eyes as he uttered those same damn words, “I’m sorry Tony.”

And he does raise his eyes to meet James Barnes’, does firmly grasp the man’s hand, and he does say this, “Thank you…James.” And he does mean every word. 

Ten days later, and he would hardly call himself and the newly minted Captain America, because Pepper had stopped them both from punching Congress over that one, friends. He wouldn’t call them that…yet. 

But that doesn’t stop James from standing here, in Tony’s bombed out living room, urging him to just go talk to Strange already. 

And Tony doesn’t mean to yell, but “He wasn’t there!” is hanging in the air between them before he can stop it. James just blinks at him, and damn if that look isn’t so heartbreakingly familiar. Rhodey and Steve had never been able to stand each other’s company long enough to notice how similar they were, but Tony had never failed to notice it. And James does a pretty good job at impersonating them, but he’s too damn young and haunted and broken to pull it off completely. 

Mostly, the whole thing just makes Tony sadder. “Maybe you should go give him a chance to explain why that is?” And were those deliberate puppy dog eyes? Tony rolled his eyes. 

Guess he was going to look for a Sorcerer Supreme. 

00

Tony likes to think he storms the battlements, but really the Cloak opens the door for him, swishing away before he can start yelling. He’s rather lost the appetite for it by the time they reach Strange, because how had he forgotten, even for an instant, that he wasn’t the only one who’d lost so very much in all of this. 

The Institute is a broken husk of a thing, rather like Strange when he finally finds him, curled up on the floor in the centre of a room that appears to contain an infinite number of moving images. Stephen blinks at him, eyes red rimmed from sleep or grief or perhaps both. 

“Stark…is everything alright?” And the damn concern there somehow makes Tony angry all over again.

“Do you know what day it is Stange?” A wince, a clenched jaw, yeah, he knows exactly what day it is the bastard-

“I’m sorry Stark, I truly am very sorry. I know I missed it, missed everything, but I had to check, I had to be sure-“ He gestures helplessly at the images around them. Tony felt something leaden that he’d hoped died with Thanos build up his throat. 

“Check what?” Stephen looks at him blankly. “That we didn’t make things worse.”

Tony feels incredulous, manic laugher bubble up. “Worse? How could things possibly be worse…” He trails off as he finally begins to really, truly look at the images floating by them. The dread only gets worse with each passing face, each passing name.

Pepper, Christine, presidents, world leaders, T’Challa, Shuri, Barnes, billions, trillions, the entire fucking Antarctic. 

Tony turns slowly, taking in the thousands and thousands of mirrors, the endless stretch of grief and trauma and loss, and he feels something in his chest loosen painfully. 

“I know I was gone for a long time, at the worst possible time Stark, but…” A shaking had gestured vaguely at a nearby mirror, showing a planet that appears to be missing most of South America. 

Tony doesn’t even try to reply because there are no words for this…

He simply stares at the endless, endless walls of mirrors, and the endless, endless possibilities of what could be, of what might have been. Who could say which ones were better. But so, so many were undeniably so much worse. An image flashed for but a moment of a red-gold faceplate flipping up to reveal the bespeckled visage of Dr. Ho Yinsen, before morphing into a memorial to Antonia Stark, before drifting away again, far, far away from Tony’s grasping, outstretched fingers. 

He clutches at thin air for a moment, and somehow it is the sight of his own empty hands that finally, finally brings the tears. They don’t start as a trickle, but rather a torrent, a bitter, salty howling that threatens to rip Tony’s lungs clean through his newest Arc-Sternum. 

There is nothing tentative about the arm that wraps around Tony’s shaking frame, the Cloak rushing upwards to drape securely over both Strange and Stark alike. Stephen’s own sobs are a quieter thing, slower and steadier, but somehow more resigned, and all the more heartbreaking for it. 

They stand like that for a long time, Strange’s taller frame wrapped around Tony’s smaller one, tears soaking the Cloak that tenderly enveloped them both. Around them, the images whirled faster and faster until they became a blur of faces and dates and worlds, and for a moment, it was as if the cosmos itself was crying with them.

 

+1 Tony’s turn to try for casual

Fridays are let’s-clean-Cloak days at 177 Bleecker Street. This usually devolves rapidly from Stephen offering Cloak the use of a bathtub to the Heir Apparent Sorcerer Supreme chasing his sentient clothing around the Sanctum corridors with a feather duster in one hand and a washcloth with the highest quality fabric softener applied to it in the other. More laughter takes place than actual cleaning, but somehow it becomes a tradition neither of the participants seem eager to discard in a hurry. 

Naturally, Stephen is on the losing side of the battle when Tony Stark strolls through the Sanctum’s doors. They always carefully don’t talk about how much all things magical just seem to, well, like Tony Stark. Thus, on this occasion, Stephen doesn’t bat an eyelash at the ease of Tony’s entry into one of the most secure locations in the known worlds. And yes, he has that on the authority of not one but three Norse Gods. 

But unsurprising or not, Stephen could have used to having Tony Stark find him being feather dusted mercilessly by his own Cloak. Although, in Tony’s defense, he was currently lying three feet from Sanctum’s front door, giggling like a man possessed. 

And also to Tony’s credit, he merely cocks his head carefully, blinks, and suggests, “Have you tried dry cleaning Strange?” Which, yes he had, thank you very much. 

Stephen attempts to glare, but ends up giggling again instead as Cloak found a particularly ticklish spot on his left ankle. “W-we don’t mention d-dry-cl-ean-ing here any-more St-stark-k.” 

Tony doesn’t hesitate to finally burst into laughter. Stephen can’t help but admire his self-restraint to have lasted this long without rolling on the floor with him. Even he will admit this is by far the funniest thing that has happened to either of them this week. It is certainly the happiest. 

Tony leans his hands on his knees, blowing out a breath and gazing at Stephen steadily. “Thanks Strange, Cloak. I needed that.” He straightens, waving something small and black in the air. “Anyway, sorry for interrupting guys. I just stopped by to tell you the Project was done.” The Cloak has mercifully compromised to letting Stephen into a sitting position and settling contentedly in his lap, brushing the feather duster over its own folds. If Cloaks can look contended anyway. 

From a more upright position, Stephen can finally identify the waved object as a Stark issue flash drive. He blinks at it dumbly. The Project has been nicknamed that by Peter at the latest unofficial team meeting, the ones where they all eat too much popcorn and discuss way too little world saving. As far as the-sort-of-but-not-quite-new-Avengers can tell, the Project has been solely responsible for Tony’s lack of eating, sleeping and generally performing life sustaining activities unless they remind him repeatedly for the last six months. 

In all that time, it had never crossed his mind that the Project might be something to do with him. Or, judging by the hesitant look on Tony’s face, even perhaps for him, Stephen realized rather belatedly. 

The Cloak submits to being carried like a pet snake only on the rarest of occasions, but it offers no protest to being draped around Stephen’s neck this time. And yes, it prefers the pronoun it. Stephen had not seen the logic in arguing over that display of free pronoun choice. 

Tony is still waving the flash drive around casually, his eyes carefully fixed on the floor. They don’t hand each other things, never have. Stephen knows it is as much for Tony as it is for him, and he has always appreciated the sentiment. 

Particularly now, as the habit kills any potential awkwardness of Stephen allowing Cloak to hover in midair between them, of Tony casually dropping the flash drive into a secure fold to be returned to Stephen’s pocket in short order. 

Stephen has lead Tony up the stairs and is making the tea before he thinks to ask, “So what precisely is the Project Stark, if one may finally be permitted the question.” His tone is just this side of caustically teasing, and Tony grins in predictable delight. It goes a ways towards decreasing the hangman expression on his face, and Stephen lets his breath come slightly more evenly. So perhaps not life or death then. 

Tony fiddles with the handle of his teacup for a moment longer, his brown eyes flicking up to meet Stephen’s briefly, then dancing away once more. 

“I was doing some research for Bruce a while back and I came across these files and well, I wanted to see if I could more than anything else really. I’ve always been too much of a show off, need to prove my own genius and all that.” His rambling is as self-cutting as it usually is, and Tony’s sheepish grin only serves to set Stephen’s teeth on edge. He takes a scalding sip of his own tea to distract himself, the saucer hovering obligingly in the air as the cup tips its self into his mouth. And promptly chokes on it as Tony finally gets to the point. 

“And, well, I found this old article you published on Shundersons, and your notes about not having the right surgical equipment to realize the desired result, so I built it. For you. The schematics are on there.” He gestures to the drive that suddenly seems to weigh a hundred pounds in Stephen’s pocket. “It just took me longer than I expected to get the hang of design of the surgical tools, but I have prototypes now, so if you want to see those as well there back at the Tower. They’re a little too big to be portable…” Tony seems to run out of steam there, the first indication he knows the sensitivity of a topic he’s been addressing as casually as if they were discussing the weather. 

The weather, right. Only the topic is the disease that Stephen essentially cured as a medical student. The reason he went into medicine. The cause of the inoperable brain tumour that killed his big sister. The disease he has always lacked the technological advances to actually successfully effect that cure. Until now apparently. 

The weather, if the forecast was Tony Stark was a bloody self-effacing miracle worker. 

The tea burns acrid in the back of Stephen’s throat, his hands spasming against the soothing caresses of the cloak. Stark looks like he’s wondering if he broke Stephen. “Strange, you alright there?” 

Is he alright? Stephen gapes. “Stark…do you have any idea what you’re saying? What you’re offering here? What this means to me-“ And yeah, that was definitely discomfort in Tony’s expression, like he really, genuinely just thought he was doing something nice for Stephen, like brining him lunch or feeding his fish. 

Stephen watches Tony’s eyes drop to the ground again and, oh fuck it. 

Strange may have lost the use of his hands for even the most basic of tasks that don’t involve a great deal of magic, but there is nothing wrong with his legs. Or his wrists. 

He’s manhandled a startled Tony out of his seat before the Cloak has fully shifted to rest over both their shoulders, his shaking hands holding Tony to him with a painful amount of force. 

Tony’s breathing is coming in hot, sharp gasps, and Stephen closes his eyes on images of a drunk, careless Howard Stark bearing down on his son, banishing the memories from both of their heads with nary a thought. 

He replaces it with images of his own, ones he has not permitted himself to think about in decades. Donna twirling across the ice of their old pond, beating Stephen on a biology test, helping their mother wash their dog Rosco, laughing at a bad joke their father told, her flaming red hair streaming in the wind. A tear trickles down Stephen’s face, hot and strong. It splashes against the protective folds of the Cloak, which tightens its grip in response. Tony’s body hasn’t relaxed, but his hands are suddenly fisted in the back of Stephen’s tunic, his grip vice-like and warm. 

Stephen clears his throat quietly, his throat burning even harder. “Thank you…Tony.” 

Tony shudders against him, a shivering breath blowing out against his cheek as his body relaxes in one painful quiver. “You’re welcome…Stephen.” 

It’s a start.


End file.
